Rest Stop
by Eponymous Rose
Summary: York and Carolina wait for pickup after a successful mission.
York heaves an exaggerated sigh, slumping to lie down on the dirt path. His HUD takes a second to react to his new orientation, then helpfully repositions all markers in his peripheral vision. Hostile contacts' last-known position: a couple klicks beyond his left arm. LZ marker: two meters from his left foot. Friendly armor signature: closing fast. And the little timer… "Two hours past scheduled check-in. This may be our new home now."

Carolina gives a soft huff that he already recognizes, after a grand total of two missions together, as the signal tipping the balance away from her stalwart-and-serious-leader persona. "What, do you set up camp if the bus is five minutes late? You always give up this easy, Agent New York?"

"Pretty much always," York says. "Also, 'Agent New York' makes it sound like you're my mom pulling out my middle name. Am I in trouble?"

Carolina steps into view, looming over him with her helmet cocked to one side. "So you think of me as your mom? That's a little weird."

"That's a lot weird. So stop doing it, huh? How would you like it if I started calling you 'Agent N—' wait no 'Agent S—" He pauses. "Which Carolina are you?"

She crosses her arms. "West Carolina. The best Carolina. You gonna get up, or is 479er going to have to peel you off the ground when she shows up?"

York digs a finger into the dirt next to him, drawing an idle circle. Maybe a spiral. He doesn't really want to lift his head to check. "See, that's also weird. She's probably got this great callsign like, I don't know, Phoenix or Hawk or Pigeon or something, and you're just going around calling her by the numbers. Hey, guess my real middle name?"

Another huff, this one a little more exasperated. "Why would I do that?"

"Because it's one in the morning—"

Carolina takes one step to her left, effectively shading him from the brilliant sunlight. "It's midday."

"— _ship time_ , and because that's the sort of thing you do when your ride is two hours late and hasn't been in contact during that time and you're trying to distract yourself from the possibility that hey, maybe they're all gone up there, the whole ship could be space dust, and now we're gonna have to learn to forage to survive. What even _is_ foraging? It starts with an 'M', by the way. My middle name."

Carolina stares at him or, well, her helmet stares in his general direction. She's probably playing Solitaire on her HUD or something. "Massachusetts," she deadpans, eventually, and crouches down next to him. "You could've said something."

Ah. Not Solitaire, then. She's tapping into his biocomms. "It's not that bad, it's just, you know. Biofoam reserves are low."

He feels the push-pull of her hand on his shoulder, checking his range of motion, and winces when her thumb presses against the wound. "You're worried you'll drop down a rank on the leaderboard," she says, and he gives a suppressed groan when she adds her own injection of biofoam to the mess. "That's ridiculous, York."

"It wasn't ridiculous two hours ago," York mutters, thickly. His mouth always goes sort of dry and tingly when the biofoam hits his system. "Quick trip to the infirmary when I'm back on-station, no need for any of it to show up on my mission inventory spreadsheets."

"Uh-huh," says Carolina, and pushes herself to her feet. He takes her proffered hand to pull up next to her, blinking as sparks of light flicker in his vision. "And what if we'd been attacked? Don't put the damn leaderboard before your team next time."

"You got it, boss," York says. Carolina, he knows, took two bullet wounds to the leg in the firefight back there. He's pretty damn sure she shouldn't have any biofoam to spare. He's also pretty damn sure that giving up your own biofoam for a teammate is the surest way anybody's figured out to get bumped up a few ranks on the board. Sorta wishes he'd thought of it first. "It's not 'Massachusetts', you know. My middle name."

"Agent New Massachusetts York," Carolina says. Is the thread of exhaustion in her voice only there because he's listening for it? "That's rough."

He snorts, feigning offense, and squints up into the sky. "Ride's here. Comms must be down. Maybe that solar storm they were talking about?"

When he glances over, she's still looking his way. "Hey," she says. "Seriously, though. Don't do it again, okay?"

"Yeah," he says. "You too."

Her shoulders go tense, then relax as she shifts to stare up at the Pelican's gradually approaching form. "I'm starving. Midnight snack at the mess after debrief?"

York shades his eyes from the sunlight and smiles. "It's a nice night for it."


End file.
